Thursday, 5 July 2012

Oderstr. 50

Our new home is a white box of airy sunbeams perched upon a diving board overlooking the park. Our new home is all broken chairs and big windows; our new home grows basil on the balcony and smells of window boxes and summer storms.

A thick soupy wind has swept over the city and I open the windows in either side of the house to try and get the stolid air to shift. These rooms are big and empty, and the doors bang when they catch the gusts.

In the mornings, I can watch the kites circling in a bucket blue sky. The trees obscure the kite flyers who are standing on the runways, so all I see is string and coloured squares snipped neatly out of the curve of the atmosphere.

I am having troubles with the tentacles of the working week but I am getting better at checking out my soft, curved, hungover self and saying it’s ok to close the laptop and flee to the fields. Who can tether sentences when their heart is so jittery? Who can tap at a paragraph's marble waiting for the crumbs to fall away and the statue to form?

I can see the whole empty airport from where I am sitting, and three coffees into the day I'm still yawning. String and skates and surfers, trying to teach themselves how to fly.

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